“Lori. Hi.” I recognized the voice immediately. The dean of Blackwell. I remembered her voice so clearly from my initial interview. She had this deep, husky voice, I was sure it was from smoking far too many cigarettes in dark, dusty, Parisian art studios. She’d studied art at the University of Paris in the ’60s—only the best art school in the world. Some years back I’d dreamt of studying there, too, but I’d given up on that—I couldn’t be that far away from Zac, especially with my mom the way she was.

“Hi. Imogen . . . um, Mrs. Blackwell, uh . . .” I stuttered.

“Imogen is fine,” she replied.

“Cool.”

“I wanted to call you and tell you that we’ve made our final selection for next year.”

“You have?” I tried to sound calm, despite the pounding in my chest.

“Yes. And I’m afraid, Lori, that we didn’t choose you.”

“Y-y-you didn’t?”

“Lori!” Zac screamed and banged on the door again.

I covered the receiver with my hand and banged back. “Stop it, Zac,” I hissed through the door.

“Everything okay?” Imogen asked.

“Yes. Sorry, baby brother, uh, I thought you were going to email us?”

“Well, we did email everyone else, but I wanted to talk to you personally.”

“Why?”

“The thing is, Lori, you’re an incredibly talented artist. And when this process began, none of us thought we wouldn’t be choosing you for next year.”

“So . . . why didn’t you?”

“You’re technically brilliant. Probably the most technically talented artist I’ve seen in years, but we all just felt that with your last painting, none of us knew who you were as an artist.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the painting didn’t really have a voice.”

“A voice?” Why did I keep hearing this word?

“Yes. What are you the artist saying about the subject? What emotion are you trying to convey? We felt it was more like a photograph. We know that’s your particular style, but we just wanted to see something more from you. Something a little different.”

“Something with a voice,” I echoed.

“Exactly. We wanted to see work that had an opinion. That said something. Technique can be taught, but art is not about technique and perfection. It’s about what the artist is trying to convey with their work. Your portrait lacked that, making it feel unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” I repeated and wanted to cry. That’s because it was unfinished. Technically, I hadn’t painted what I’d set out to paint. My hand went moist and sweaty against the phone.

“Lori!” Zac banged on the door again.

“Do you have to go?” Imogen asked.

“Uh, no. I mean, yes . . . I don’t know. I . . .”